


sins of the father

by abaddon (nothingbutfic)



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2019-01-25 01:00:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12519352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nothingbutfic/pseuds/abaddon
Summary: For I, the LORD your God, am a jealous God, punishing the children for the sin of the fathers to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me.





	sins of the father

**Author's Note:**

> Angelverse fic that I first posted in 2004, made AU by S5, possibly. Post-Home at the end. NC-17 fic involving Connor/Holtz, Connor/Jasmine and Connor/Angel.

His function is to hunt; his purpose is to kill, and his cause is righteous. He is but a boy, but he can do much good, or so he is told.  
  
He has never known anything than the hunt and the kill, and the righteousness of his cause. He does not ask questions, as he does not know what questions are.  
  
His name is Stephen, his father is Holtz. He was not born here, but this is his existence, the hunt, the kill, the purity of beliefs that are not his own. He fights because he should and because he must, he fights because he is Stephen and his father who is Holtz expects nothing less.  
  
He is a good hunter because Holtz tells him so, and a good killer because he hasn’t yet been bested, and he doesn’t think he will. The land is harsh and the prey are many, but his father is cunning and he is strong, and their cause is just.  
  
His rewards are few and far between, but sometimes his father favours him with a nod, a glance, and approving word and on scant occasions Stephen ends up on his knees in front of his father with his member in his mouth as he sucks. His father does not moan, does not sigh and barely breathes, but his grip on Stephen’s hair is strong. Before the first time it happened, Holtz explained that it is a ancient ritual; one in which the older warrior passes on his spirit and wisdom through his seed, and it is an honour Stephen is all too glad to accept.  
  
His is not to reason why; his is the beauty of the hunt and the calm after a kill. When he returns to a world he has forgotten, he attempts to do good and fulfil his purpose, and does not speak of the older, darker ceremonies he left behind, and the bitter, tart remnant that Holtz tasted of in his mouth.  
  
*  
  
Jasmine is kind and beautiful, and ugly and vicious. She is truth clad in lies, and her gaze is as terrible as it is lovely. She offers salvation in the palm of her hand, and Connor is not sure if the world is worthy.  
  
Better perhaps to let it all burn, burn in fire and fade away and they can all have their peace. It isn’t his choice anymore however, and Connor’s glad of that. He had his choices and perhaps he got them wrong; he isn’t to know, it’s not his fault. He’s only what he could be after all, and he’s been shaped by others all his life, from a mother he never knew to a father he did, and another father he would have liked to know, if Holtz hadn’t died. They all had their plans and purposes, and Connor just did what he could and obeyed orders, and this lead to Jasmine, so he’s happy about that.  
  
She tells him he is wonderful and special, brave and potent: he brought her into the world; he was a vessel for her making; he lived for her, and now she lives for everyone. She’s probably a monster but she tells him the truth, and he clings to that hope like a babe with his mother. So she eats people; Angel did that for a living and he was rewarded with a destiny, the promise of redemption, of living, of humanity, and Connor knows he doesn’t deserve that.  
  
For once Connor understands the score and playing field, and he made up all the rules himself. This is his choice, his destiny, and he won’t be robbed of it. Jasmine is caring and considerate and love made flesh and bone and maggot; the smell of decay, entropy incarnate. Best to let her win, to let it all run down and be consumed, to fall into dust and ashes and be gone. Connor knows what a temptation free will is; he’s judged his own mistakes and knows he’s fallen and no-one else can be trusted with such a gift.  
  
She can’t hurt him, she knows; she barely even touches him. Just small caress, squeezes of arm or shoulder, a kiss to the hair. Chaste and familial, in ways that neither Cordelia nor Holtz were or ever could be, and yet Connor sees the interest in her eyes. Everyone knows he is Connor, the redeemer, the destroyer, the Father of the Most High and Holy, the Bringer of All That Is or Could Be, and to them he is salvation wrapped up in flesh and blood and sinew, like Jasmine but mortal, touchable, able to be approached and not consumed.  
  
Within an hour of his daughter’s creation he has his own fan club and groupies. Within two hours he has people soliciting him for sexual favours, and he agrees to some if only because he likes to be liked, and Cordelia has found the rest he so craves. A day or two later and Connor takes some attentive young man into one of the rooms of the Hyperion, and lowers himself casually onto a chair as if he gets asked to be blown off every day of the week. The man is pretty but not feminine, with a wide smile and a fine grin, and Connor likes the looks of that mouth.  
  
He likes the feel of it better, hot and wet around what he now knows is most definitely a cock, and perhaps for once sex will not necessarily mean the terrifying possibility of the unknown, and all sorts of untold consequences. This sex will just be sex, and good sex at that; the young man has clearly had some practice at this and Connor considers the fact he’s forgotten his name immaterial. His name isn’t his asset after all, and that kind of suction certainly is.  
  
When Connor’s done and tucked back into his pants, the young man licks the remnant from his lips and looks at him with a beatific smile that Connor places instantly.  
  
“Thank you, Connor,” he says in Jasmine’s voice, and Connor is neither surprised or horrified; after all, this is what he was born for, a routine matter in his extended family of deviants, and if anyone asks he was just following orders.  
  
*  
  
It’s cold in L.A. at this time of night, and Connor’s doing the whole poor pity me waif look because it drums up more customers. Not that he’s had many tonight, what with that guy stalking him for what seems like hours.  
  
No matter where he goes, or onto what patch, that guy is following him, all gelled hair, brooding gaze and long black coat that doesn’t quite flap in the wind. Connor’s met some fucked up people in his time but this might take the cake. He is after all the all-American boy who goes to UCLA and prostitutes himself out on the streets some nights for kicks and pocket money, although he can get the former at college and the latter from home, and he knows he can take care of himself.  
  
Besides, the guy might be a paying customer and it’s been a slow night.  
  
“If you want to have some fun, you should really get a little closer,” he calls, all cocky grin and bashful charm. “I might be good, but I’m not _that_ good.”  
  
The guy – who Connor is already mentally calling Bruce, as in Bruce Wayne, as in Batman, the Dark Knight, because even all-American boys can be comic book nerds with a slight interest in tight lycra, swirling capes and hard core ass-kicking – checks to see if there’s any traffic and walks across the street, hands in his pocket and that long coat tossed back over his hips.  
  
“I was just wondering why a guy like you does something like this,” and it’s all too easy with a small flash of righteousness and/or condescension, and Connor’s never liked being told how to behave.  
  
“Why not?” he asks the guy, and the guy clearly doesn’t know how to respond.  
  
Hello, _loser._  
  
“You lookin’ for some company tonight?” Connor asks, moving in closer, and the riff is just an act because he might as well be some boy from the wrong side of the tracks, and even though he’s not, some nights he just likes to pretend to be something he isn’t.  
  
The guy moves off and bats his hand away, wincing as he does so as if it’s a goddamn mortal injury, and looks so jumpy Connor half expects him to run. “No, I’m not – I mean, I am, but not like-”  
  
Connor is something past bored, and he’s got no money and no kicks. He drops the act; stops, stares. The guy stares back. “Look. I got no issues with you, yeah? But either you pay up and we do something or you fuck off. You’re wasting my time.”  
  
The guy obviously doesn’t want to leave, which explains the cool tang of asphalt under Connor’s knees, and the hard dick in his mouth. The alleyway is dark and quiet, softened at the edges with rubbish and splatters of paint. They don’t make a sound.  
  
The guy isn’t strictly human from what Connor can guess, but that’s par for the course: this is L.A. after all, and Connor has had a broad range of clientele. _Had_ in most senses of the word and right now would be a bad time to giggle.  
  
“Connor,” the guy sighs when he comes, and Connor is so surprised he almost forgets to swallow and gags instead, coughing until he’s managed to calm himself.  
  
“How did you know my name?” he demands, but the guy just freaks and leaves, gone in a startled cry and the flash of coat.  
  
Connor is left on his knees in the dark and he hasn’t even been paid.


End file.
